This must be what meth is like

This lady.
This is what I feel like right now.





Here's The Thing:

Don't ever.

Don't fucking EVER.

Go off your medications cold turkey.

First, let me tell you that it was not my intention to go off my medication. Like everything that's happened lately with the medical system, my depression and anxiety medication refills went horribly wrong. I've been off of them - because I ran out of them - since Saturday. Today is Wednesday, did you know that?

I'm working from home today because I FINALLY got my general practitioner to refill my existing prescriptions this morning, but he didn't think it was a good idea for me to be at work. Or in public at all.

I've been pacing around my house looking for projects all day. I hung a curtain rod. I hung some photos. I finished remodeling the bathroom. I worked all day from home as well.

And now I'm sitting here blogging because I don't know what the fuck else to do. I'm literally shaking with anxiety and this weird nervous energy I'm not used to. I'm at the point where I'm considering demolishing a wall in my house just so I have something to fucking DO.

It's raining, so yard work is out of the question.

My roommate cooked, so that's not necessary.

I'm too anxious to give a fuck about cleaning, I want to build something/break something/fix something/burn something.

I want to smoke 800 cigarettes at the same time. I want to shave my head so that I can watch it grow back all night long.

It probably doesn't help that I've been unable to really sleep for about 4 days now, and I'm exhausted and wired at the same time. I feel like this is what coke would do to me. Or meth. Or not being depressed.

I may just write a novel here, actually, so that I have something to keep my hands busy with.

I've cried three times today for no reason at all. I've yelled at my computer for taking too long to open an Excel worksheet. I swore out loud at a stupid email question, and I swore out loud when I fucked something up in a work request.

I want to dance and cry and break things all at the same time. The only things I don't want to do are sit still, masturbate, and sleep. Oh god, if only I could sleep.

I tried watching TV and didn't make it to the first commercial before I had to get up and move. I bought a cross stitch pattern yesterday to give my hands something to do, and that lasted two rows before I decided that the stupid Bengal tiger could go fuck itself if it wanted me to stitch it into existence any longer.

I'm thinking that booze might be the only option, although I've been directly told it's counter-productive to my general feelings of health and well being.

Frankly, I want to try to demolish the glass Coors bottle with my teeth so that I can spend the evening pulling glass shreds out of my gums with a pair of needle nose pliers. At least I would have something to do.

I literally have no point in writing this, no joke to make, no reason to write. I have nothing to say, just feel like it's helping to type and type and type.

So this should be super fun to read.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go walk between the kitchen and living room for the next hour.

Mental

I admit, my last post was quite apocalyptic - that happens to be how I was feeling. Much has happened since, including hospitalization.

I went in for my psychiatric assessment last Tuesday, and half-way through the meeting, the licensed social worker thought it might be advisable to admit myself into the adult behavioral health ward at the hospital next door. I've since learned the acronym S.I., or "suicidal ideation," which just explains my frequent thoughts of driving my car off of the road into a river or a tree or a ravine, or how I'd wonder how many pills I have in the house, what kind they are, and whether taking them all would allow me some respite of the permanent variety.

I've never moved from the "ideation" stage to the "action" stage, so I can't say I was sure at the time that I might harm myself, but I did realize that I needed to do something in order to get well.

The social worker walked me into the ER, told them why I was admitting myself, and I was in a surveilled, locked room with my belongings removed and total supervision in less than 5 minutes. I'm a clumsy gal, and I've had my share of ER visits, but I've never seen anything move that quickly before. The poor ER administrator ladies were all but fumbling their words in an attempt to whisk me away to safety.

Veronica was with me - she'd wanted to accompany me for support and a delicious lunch afterwards - so at least I was entertained during my stay. She helped me work out how to notify my boss of my sudden leave of absence in a way that would not divulge the personal weakness behind it, and she also fed me Bugles, which was awesome because I'd opted not to eat prior to my appointment in anticipation of the delicious meal I was expecting.

Soon, I was rolled up into the mental health ward, where I quickly realized exactly what I'd gotten myself into: locked in.

Locked in with no belongings. Locked into a hallway where guests were stripped of almost all belongings, especially anything sharp, of a length to tie a knot, or of the electronic (electrocution?) persuasion.

Inside of the locked ward was a second, more securely locked ward. That's where I went.

I gave my life story to a nurse (for the third time of the day) including my primary physician's name and location, the details of my S.I., my alcohol use, my history of depression and anxiety, the reason for my admission, how I heard about the mental ward at this particular hospital, whether I felt I was in danger of self-harm at that moment, my medical history, how my brain injury occurred, whether I was currently in any pain, what my goals were for my stay, on and on and on.

I was in far too much awe of my decision to really grasp what was happening until after a few hours, after Veronica and Daylow both had left for the evening and I was left alone in a room with no light switches, no telephone cords...where the thermostat was hidden behind a metal plate in the wall and the only luxury allowed were magazines (after the nurse had flipped through each page, searching for god knows what).

Because my anxiety had been at an all-time high for several days (thanks, Wellbutrin!!!!), they immediately prescribed something to alleviate the roller coaster dropping feeling in my stomach, and unsure of the rules for sleeping, I spent several hours reading and re-reading a magazine about gardening which Veronica had left.

The nurses frequently looked into my room, door safely left wide open, all night long. Once with a flashlight. Despite the medication, which made me feel like I was swimming in Benadryl, I didn't sleep very much or very well.

The next day only got more disturbing and/or therapeutic.

This is the Last Stop

It's been a while, there's no way around that.

I'm back because I'm sick in a pretty substantial, yet insubstantial, way.

I'm sure more of you can relate than those who don't, but some of the demons from my past have resurfaced with a vengeance this winter, and I vaguely remember that writing here used to help a little.

Tomorrow, I'm going to see my counselor in the morning, then I'm working from home until 1:30 p.m. when I'm heading to an accredited psychiatric hospital, where I'll be assessed and have to decide whether inpatient or outpatient treatment is best for my situation.

Funny, I heard that Cory Monteith is going back to rehab - addiction treatment - because he's relapsed. It's understandable. It's actually better than that, it's respectable. While addiction is a weakness of sorts, it's widely recognized as an illness. A socially acceptable one.

What I have is widely - and narrowly, depending upon my relation to the judgement - considered a weakness. A character flaw. Narcacism.

I've talked about my struggles here before. When I was a teen, I cut myself. Once the option arose, I began drinking instead. But I'm not an addict exactly, I'm someone who has been diagnosed with mood disorders: Dysthymia, Seasonal Affective Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

It's April 1st and there is snow on the ground. Melting, but there. It's maybe 30 degrees out, and windy.  Another contributing factor is my TBI.

Right now, I feel like something is irretrievable wrong. Someone has died. Someone has been injured. Someone I love is crying out for help because they are in the greatest of danger, and I just KNOW it. But they aren't. No one is. Everyone is fine, relatively speaking.

My stomach is in my throat and my heart is racing. I feel like I'm on a never-ending roller coaster plunge. I have the urge to pace the floor, back and forth, until the Call comes. But no call is coming.

This happens to me every once in a while, and is augmented now because I am taking a well-known anti-depressant that was prescribed to me by my general practice doctor, and only because I've taken it before with no serious health side effects.

Why did he prescribe it? Because up until about 10 days ago, I was - once again - contemplating taking my own life. For very selfish reasons that seem perfectly reasonable to a sick mind. This was an emergency effort to keep me going while I began meeting with a counselor, and ultimately, until I came up with a longer-term plan.

Right now, that plan is to get intensive psychiatric treatment that will help with the chemical imbalances, the emotional fucked-up-ed-ness, and my general health.

I'm turning 30 this month, and I always thought that maybe age would bring peace. Perhaps different friends or different goals...perhaps if my most impulsive behaviors were unleashed, or my lifestyle and circumstances changed drastically...perhaps I would be well.

It's not working, so I have to try something else. But there's a very big stigma associated with mental health issues. Never mind that my paternal grandfather died living in a van in his driveway because he was convinced that his house was bugged. Forget about my maternal grandfather who was abusive to the people he loved most before drinking himself into the grave. Ignore my mother's propensity to live in a fantasy world after trading drugs for god. My biological sister who attempted suicide and then witnessed it's brutal fallout not long after.

Sick in the head is even harder to understand than addiction, and it's part of the reason I wait until I'm at a DEFCON LEVEL EIGHT CRISIS STATE before I try to get help.

It's likely I'll need to miss work, which means I'll need short term disability and/or FMLA leave. I'm ashamed to tell my boss why I'm sick. I'm terrified that I won't qualify.

I'm most afraid that I'll go to the hospital for my assessment tomorrow and they'll tell me I'm fine, that it's in my head. Because NO SHIT?! My head is the problem.

But what I've never been scared of is spewing my shit to the Internet, and for that freedom...I have all of you to thank.

Weird milestones

When my first husband was recovering from his massive brain injury, the doctors wouldn't give his family an official prognosis until he hit the 2 year mark.

Apparently it takes at least 2 years for the brain to even out after a big blow like that, so it's around month 24 when the medical community would start conjecturing on whether his physical and cognitive side effects were permanent.

We threw a party for Scott's 2 year anniversary.

We rented a big cabin at his favorite gun club south of the Twin Cities and we BBQd for everyone he'd ever met. His brother, friends, hunting buddies...everyone came to celebrate the fact that had he survived the accident, he had re-learned how to walk, he was able to start working again, and he'd gotten most of the movement back on the left side of his body.

He was different in so many ways, but he wasn't in a wheelchair. He wasn't paralyzed, and he certainly wasn't dead.

Yet his personality was a caricature of his former self - exaggerated and childish, all in a gruesomely humorous way.

Pre-TBI, he was loud and cocky with a hair trigger temper.

Post-TBI, he called me at work 50 times a day, like an endless buzzing in my ear. He clung to people he knew and tried too hard to make friends with those he didn't. And his temper morphed from violent into petulant and violent.

I remember that he was adamant about manning the grill at his 2 year Celebration, but when he was inevitably distracted by the well-wishers who fawned over him, the hamburger buns were lost to the charcoal flames, and Shit. Hit. The. Fan.

He stormed through the cabin, screaming and slamming his fists on vertical surfaces, lit from within with the fiery injustice of the uneven temperature of the charcoal grill, positive that I was somehow to blame for the lost buns. He spit curses at me as his brother and friend talked him down from the ledge.

He never said thank you for my planning the massive event. Or paying for it.

I just realized that today *might* be my 2 year anniversary of my own TBI, but I can't remember for sure.

I began thinking about what my caricaturized self looks like.

Pre-TBI, I was obsessed with being perfect in every way that every person needed me to be. I was in the habit of taking care of the people in my life, from doing the ironing, cleaning and cooking for Scott and his father when his mother was at the Mayo clinic for an extended chemo treatment, to getting married when I knew it was a bad idea so that people wouldn't be disappointed by me.

Post-TBI, I'm still in the habit of assuming the mothering role, but instead of feeling good about it, I resent the hell out of the people I mother.

So while I survived 2 years ago, I'm still not really living for myself. And I have only myself to blame.

How big WAS it?

"They're your issues. You determine their size."

Someone wise told me that the other day.

This is something I've struggled with for years and years, probably because I always imagined that going to a therapist would provide a simple solution to my mental disarray, much like a dose of amoxicillin knocks out my walking pneumonia every time it strikes.

Turns out, even the best therapist I've seen has admitted that "becoming healthy" depends upon my ability to "choose how I live."

FUCK THAT, man. Just fix me already.

It's such an odd thing, being genetically predisposed to imbalance and addiction, circumstantially being driven to those things, and then choosing them because they are how I identify myself now.

It's the triple threat of mental disorder.

Thank god for Cheez-Its.

Blood of the Scribe

So once, I thought I wanted to be a published fiction writer.Then I started college writing classes.

Turns out I suck at fiction and I have a knack with memoir.

Writers of memoir often confront critics who claim that their "facts" are inaccurate. Unless we're talking about evolution, it is my experience that factual events are interpreted differently by everyone who experiences them, which means there is a very fine line between fact and fiction.

Another challenge for writers of memoir is that many people consider it "boring" to discuss one's life in an insightful and retrospective manner. I can say that I've often been guilty of harboring such feelings.

Then I read something like Sickened by Julie Gregory, and I realize that many of the functions of dark fiction that I find so appealing are (sadly) just as present in the non-fiction genre: horror, murder, psychological dysfunction, inconspicuous threats, sociopathology, etc.

People often ask me what the tattoo on my forearm means, and I'm always startled to realize that I've changed in many ways that are fundamental to my own story. I haven't truly lost my love of writing, I've simply lost the ambition to follow that love into the tedious process of converting one-dimensional words into the haunting ghosts of my past.

In other words: I am fucking lazy.
All of the above is a convoluted way of saying that perhaps there is more to this story than I realized.

This is all very different.

Every once in a while, someone says, "You should blog about that!" and my reaction is less, "Hell yeah!" than, "Meh."

I'm different than I used to be. And words...they aren't as important to me anymore. I don't really like reading. It's frustrating to me, how slowly the stories unfold. I never feel the urge to write.

Something has changed.

I think it's been happening for a while, really. I think I've been hoping I wasn't morphing into someone else. But I've seen what head trauma does to other people. I should have known I wouldn't be exempt.

I camped this weekend, in a tent, for the first time since my fall in October 2010. Being in the tent is different. Being in a tent now gives me what I refer to as The Spins.

Until now, The Spins has only happened from the direct result of ear drum crystals being knocked loose so they migrate through my ear canals and convince my eyeballs that I'm on a Tilt-O-Whirl. Sometimes it happens when I'm driving and I turn to look over my shoulder before changing lanes.

But all weekend long, morning or night, when I was in the tent, I Spun for no reason. It was alarming. When I crawled out of the tent and stood up, I walked four feet directly to my right as a direct result of my intention to walk four steps forward.

My brain chemistry is different now. My perception of the world is different: more immediate.

And because I no longer have 5 senses, only 3, when my eyes and ears abandon me, I feel very much like a floating balloon.

Perhaps this somehow explains why I no longer write, but mostly I just don't enjoy it anymore.

My friends have changed. More specifically, a combination of my actions and my disinterest in socializing has resulted in a very limited number of people involved in my life. And I like it this way.

I was exhausted before, keeping up with people. I have enough of my own interests, problems, stories...I don't have the patience for anyone else's. If I have a story to tell, I talk to Daylow.

At the end of the week, all I want to do is pull weeds from my garden and drink a beer before noon and watch my dogs fling their own tennis balls in the air.

I am differnt, but I don't think I'm done changing.

While more stable than six months ago, I am in a state of flux. I'm still processing the mistakes I've made in the last year. I'm still coming to terms with the changes I've inflicted upon myself and others. I am getting used to my new body, the twenty extra pounds and (FINALLY) some shoulder-length hair.

And I'm astounded that the biggest mistakes of my life have led me to this place of relative calm. The kind of calm where I (FINALLY) love my job. Where I (FINALLY) am *almost* financially secure-ish. Where I (FINALLY) don't care about pleasing anyone else.

And this state of calm is the antithesis of interesting blog material.